LITMIR.BIZ

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quiet of the monarch's breast?

      No—my son shall quell his rage—

      What have I said?—ah me, undone;

      Ne'er shall the parent's snowy age

      Recall the tender name of son!

      O would that I for thee had died,

      Nor liv'd to wail thy piteous case!

      Who dar'd defy those looks of pride,

      That mark the chiefs of Wyba's race!

      But, O my son, I little knew

      What pow'r was in that arm of might!

      That weeds of such a baleful hue

      The laurel's beauteous wreath should blight!

      Yes, my son, the shaft that thee

      Transfix'd, hath drawn thy father's fate!

      O how will Hengist weep to see

      The woes that on his line await!

      To see my Offa's latest pangs,

      As wild in death he bites the shore!

      A savage wolf, with bloody fangs,

      The lamb's unspotted bosom tore!

      Who never knew to give offence,

      But to revenge his father's wrong!—

      Some abler arm convey him hence,

      And bear a father's love along!

      Alas! this tongue is all too weak

      The last sad duties to perform!

      These feeble arms their task forsake!

      Else should they rise in wrathful storm.

      Against the ruthless rebel's head

      Who dared such laurels to destroy;

      To bid each virtue's hope lie dead!

      And crush a parent's only joy!

      Inter him by yon ivy tow'r,

      And raise the note of deepest dole!

      Ne'er should a friend in deathful hour,

      Forget the chief of gen'rous soul:

      And o'er the grave erect a stone,

      His worth and lineage high to tell:

      And, by the faithful cross be shown

      That in the faith of Christ he fell!

      Hail! valiant chiefs of Hatfield Wood!

      Ne'er may your blooming honours cease!

      That with unequal strength withstood

      Th' invader of your country's peace.

      Now, round this head let darkness fall!

      Descend, ye shafts of thund'rous hail!

      Ne'er shall be said, in Edwy's hall

      That troubled ghost was heard to wail!—

      Then, with his feeble arm, the fire

      Into the thickest battle flies,

      To die, was all the chiefs desire;

      Oppress'd with wounds and grief, he dies.

      And let the future soul of rhime,

      If chance he cons of Edwy's praise,

      As high his quiv'ring fingers climb,

      Record, that Mordrid pour'd the lays!

ATHELGIVA.

       Table of Contents

      A LEGENDARY TALE OF WHITBY ABBEY.

      By William Watkins.

      Oswy, king of Northumberland, being engaged in war with Penda, the Pagan king of Mercia, he vowed that, should he come off victorious, his daughter should dedicate herself to the service of God by a life of celibacy, and that he would give twelve of his mansions for the erection of monasteries. Being successful, Oswy, in order to fulfil his vow, placed his daughter Ethelfleda, then scarcely a year old, as a nun in the monastery called Hertesie (Stag Island), of which Lady Hilda, niece of Edwin, first Christian king of Northumberland, was abbess; and having procured ten hides of land, in the place called Streanshalle (Whitby), built there in 657, a monastery for men and women of the Benedictine order, which was dedicated to St. Peter, and Lady Hilda appointed the first abbess. This lady was so famous for her sanctity that she attained the name of St. Hilda, and the monastery, though dedicated to St. Peter, is generally called after her. This abbey continued to flourish till about the year 867, when a party of Danes, under Hinguar and Hubba, landed at Dunsley Bay, the Dunus Sinus of Ptolemy, plundered the country around, and amongst other depredations entirely destroyed the monastery. About this period the tale is supposed to commence; the succeeding incidents are all fictitious, and were dictated to the author, in some measure, by the romantic situation of the abbey, (magnificent in ruin,) which is exceedingly proper for such events.

      This monastery lay in ruins till after the conquest, when king William assigned Whitby to Hugh de Abrincis, who disposed of the place to William de Percy, by whom the monastery was refounded about 1074, and dedicated to St. Peter and St. Hilda. In the reign of Henry VIII. this house shared the fate of the other monastic establishments; and its yearly revenues, according to Dugdale, were £437 2s. 9d.; and £505 9s. 1d., according to Speed.

      "Here mayst thou rest, my sister dear,

      Securely here abide;

      Here royal Edelfleda lived,

      Here pious Hilda died.

      "Here peace and quiet ever dwell:

      Here fear no rude alarms;

      Nor here is heard the trumpet's sound,

      Nor here the din of arms!"

      With voice compos'd and look serene,

      (Whilst her soft hand he press'd,)

      The maid, who trembled on his arm,

      Young Edwy thus address'd.

      Blue gleam'd the steel in Edwy's hand,

      The warrior's vest he bore:

      For now the Danes, by Hubba led,

      Had ravaged half the shore.

      His summons at the abbey gate

      The ready porter hears;

      And soon, in veil and holy garb,

      The abbess kind appears.

      "O take this virgin to thy care,

      Good angels be your guard;

      And may the saints in heaven above

      That pious care reward.

      "For we by fierce barbarian hands

      Are driven from our home;

      And three long days and nights forlorn,

      The dreary waste we roam.

      "But I must go—these towers to save;

      Beneath the evening shade,

      I haste to seek Earl Osrick's pow'r,

      And call Lord Redwald's aid."

      He said—and turn'd his ready foot;

      The abbess nought replies;

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